Poems of Purpose.

by Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

A GOOD SPORT

I was a little lad, and the older boys called to me from the pier: They called to me: 'Be a sport: be a sport! Leap in and swim!'

I leaped in and swam, though I had never been taught a stroke.

Then I was made a hero, and they all shouted: 'Well done! Well done, Brave boy, you are a sport, a good sport!'

And I was very glad.

But now I wish I had learned to swim the right way, Or had never learned at all.

Now I regret that day, For it led to my fall.

I was a youth, and I heard the older men talking of the road to wealth; They talked of bulls and bears, of buying on margins, And they said, 'Be a sport, my boy, plunge in and win or lose it all!

It is the only way to fortune.'

So I plunged in and won; and the older men patted me on the back, And they said, 'You are a sport, my boy, a good sport!'

And I was very glad.

But now I wish I had lost all I ventured on that day - Yes, wish I had lost it all.

For it was the wrong way, And pushed me to my fall.

I was a young man, and the gay world called me to come; Gay women and gay men called to me, crying: 'Be a sport; be a good sport!

Fill our gla.s.ses and let us fill yours.

We are young but once; let us dance and sing, And drive the dull hours of night until they stand at bay Against the shining bayonets of day.'

So I filled my gla.s.s, and I filled their gla.s.ses, over and over again, And I sang and danced and drank, and drank and danced and sang, And I heard them cry, 'He is a sport, a good sport!'

As they held their gla.s.ses out to be filled again.

And I was very glad.

Oh the madness of youth and song and dance and wine, Of woman's eyes and lips, when the night dies in the arms of dawn!

And now I wish I had not gone that way.

Now I wish I had not heard them say, 'He is a sport, a good sport!'

For I am old who should be young.

The splendid vigour of my youth I flung Under the feet of a mad, unthinking throng.

My strength went out with wine and dance and song; Unto the winds of earth I tossed like chaff, With idle jest and laugh, The pride of splendid manhood, all its wealth Of unused power and health - Its dream of looking into some pure girl's eyes And finding there its earthly paradise - Its hope of virile children free from blight - Its thoughts of climbing to some n.o.ble height Of great achievement--all these gifts divine I cast away for song and dance and wine.

Oh, I have been a sport, a good sport; But I am very sad.

A SON SPEAKS

Mother, sit down, for I have much to say Anent this widespread ever-growing theme Of woman and her virtues and her rights.

I left you for the large, loud world of men, When I had lived one little score of years.

I judged all women by you, and my heart Was filled with high esteem and reverence For your angelic s.e.x; and for the wives, The sisters, daughters, mothers of my friends I held but holy thoughts. To fallen stars (Of whom you told me in our last sweet talk, Warning me of the dangers in my path) I gave wide pity as you bade me to, Saying their sins harked back to my base s.e.x.

Now listen, mother mine: Ten years have pa.s.sed Since that clean-minded and pure-bodied youth, Thinking to write his name upon the stars, Went from your presence. He returns to you Fallen from his alt.i.tude of thought, Hiding deep scars of sins upon his soul, His fair illusions shattered and destroyed.

And would you know the story of his fall?

He sat beside a good man's honoured wife At her own table. She was beautiful As woods in early autumn. Full of soft And subtle witcheries of voice and look - His senior, both in knowledge and in years.

The boyish admiration of his glance Was white as April sunlight when it falls Upon a blooming tree, until she leaned So close her rounded body sent quick thrills Along his nerves. He thought it accident, And moved a little; soon she leaned again.

The half-hid beauties of her heaving breast Rising and falling under scented lace, The teasing tendrils of her fragrant hair, With intermittent touches on his cheek, Changed the boy's interest to a man's desire.

She saw that first young madness in his eyes And smiled and fanned the flame. That was his fall; And as some mangled fly may crawl away And leave his wings behind him in the web, So were his wings of faith in womanhood Left in the meshes of her sensuous net.

The youth, forced into sudden manhood, went Seeking the lost ideal of his dreams.

He met, in churches and in drawing-rooms, Women who wore the mask of innocence And basked in public favour, yet who seemed To find their pleasure playing with men's hearts, As children play with loaded guns. He heard (Until the tale fell dull upon his ears) The unsolicited complaints of wives And mothers all unsatisfied with life, While crowned with every blessing earth can give Longing for G.o.d knows what to bring content, And openly or with appealing look Asking for sympathy. (The first blind step That leads from wifely honour down to shame, Is ofttimes hid with flowers of sympathy.)

He saw proud women who would flush and pale With sense of outraged modesty if one Spoke of the ancient sin before them, bare To all men's sight, or flimsily conceal By veils that bid adventurous eyes proceed, Charms meant alone for lover and for child.

He saw chaste virgins tempt and tantalise, Lure and deny, invite--and then refuse, And drive men forth half crazed to wantons' arms.

Mother, you taught me there were but two kinds Of women in the world--the good and bad.

But you have been too sheltered in the safe, Old-fashioned sweetness of your quiet life, To know how women of these modern days Make licence of their new-found liberty.

Why, I have been more tempted and more shocked By belles and beauties in the social whirl, By trusted wives and mothers in their homes, Than by the women of the underworld Who sell their favours. Do you think me mad?

No, mother; I am sane, but very sad.

I miss my boyhood's faith in woman's worth - Torn from my heart, by 'good folks' of the earth.

THE YOUNGER BORN

The modern English-speaking young girl is the astonishment of the world and the despair of the older generation. Nothing like her has ever been seen or heard before. Alike in drawing-rooms and the amus.e.m.e.nt places of the people, she defies conventions in dress, speech, and conduct. She is bold, yet not immoral. She is immodest, yet she is chaste. She has no ideals, yet she is kind and generous. She is an anomaly and a paradox.

We are the little daughters of Time and the World his wife, We are not like the children, born in their younger life, We are marred with our mother's follies and torn with our father's strife.

We are the little daughters of the modern world, And Time, her spouse.

She has brought many children to our father's house Before we came, when both our parents were content

With simple pleasures and with quiet homely ways.

Modest and mild Were the fair daughters born to them in those fair days, Modest and mild.

But Father Time grew restless and longed for a swifter pace, And our mother pushed out beside him at the cost of her tender grace, And life was no more living but just a headlong race.

And we are wild - Yea, wild are we, the younger born of the World Into life's vortex hurled.

With the milk of our mother's breast We drank her own unrest, And we learned our speech from Time Who scoffs at the things sublime.

Time and the World have hurried so They could not help their younger born to grow; We only follow, follow where they go.

They left their high ideals behind them as they ran; There was but one goal, pleasure, for Woman or for Man, And they robbed the nights of slumber to lengthen the days' brief span.

We are the demi-virgins of the modern day; All evil on the earth is known to us in thought, But yet we do it not.

We bare our beauteous bodies to the gaze of men, We lure them, tempt them, lead them on, and then Lightly we turn away.

By strong compelling pa.s.sion we are never stirred; To us it is a word - A word much used when tragic tales are told; We are the younger born, yet we are very old In understanding, and our knowledge makes us bold.

Boldly we look at life, Loving its stress and strife, And hating all conventions that may mean restraint, Yet shunning sin's black taint.

We know wine's taste; And the young-maiden bloom and sweetness of our lips Is often in eclipse Under the brown weed's stain.